The sun had ducked under and both fireplaces were burning in the living room. Claude, at the front door, was admitting several people, women and men laughing--a bass voice saying: "Take my hat, Claude ... old man, my hat." "It’s Thomassont and some friends," Lena explained, going to greet them. Orville was introduced to Arthur Thomassont, Celeste de Ville, Pierre Valeriaud, and Jean Piccard. Piccard pumped his arm, swaying an alcoholic sway: "I remember you at school ... do you remember me?" Orville saw from his aunt’s face that Lena’s friends were tight. In a moment Pierre buttonholed Orville, cork colored eyes blurred, his goatee bobbing. Playing with an unlighted cigarette, he said: "So you are fighting for us ... how noble. Our legionnaire. Well, our Renault plant has blueprints for bigger, more sophisticated tanks ... when the war is over. We have an unbeatable staff ... de Gaulle will get the Nazis out..." He blinked at his cigarette and blinked at Orville, stepping back, a little embarrassed by his own verbiage. Pierre crumpled onto the piano bench, talking to Mme. Ronde, vehement about the theater, the Parisian theater, its control by the Nazis: such biased censorship. Baldheaded Thomassont poked through magazines; Lena, dressed in a sedate brown skirt and yellow blouse, chatted softly with Celeste, a pretty woman wearing lavender trimmed with squirrel: her serious face was painted dramatically over the eyes; the cheeks were ivory white, her mouth sensual. Presently, she approached Orville. "Is it like home, coming back?" she asked; she held out a cigarette. "A little that way," he said, flipping his lighter for her. "We came by to ask Lena to a party we’re giving at my place in Senlis. I’d like to have you come; we can drive over and pick you up. It’s my birthday." "When is your birthday?" "Next Friday." "My leave will be over by then ... I’ll be in Germany." "Oh ... I’m sorry." She took his hand to say good-bye. "It’s risky, bypassing the Nazis ... I despise them ... my brother has been imprisoned ... my mother’s Jewish ... I hate all this ... Paris is dreadful ... I wish you luck." "The war will be over in a day or two," cut in Thomassont, waving a magazine. "Good-bye, Orville ... Mother knows you ... you see I was in Switzerland when you were here ... we’re pretty drunk; next time when we come..." She smiled a sincere, warm smile. She was speaking English. "Goodbye," Orville said. "I wish you luck ... you and your family," he responded in English. "Then you’ll be with us on my birthday, Lena?" "Of course I will." Lena tapped Orville’s arm. "Take Piccard to the bathroom," she said. "He has to vomit." After helping him to the bathroom, Orville waited outside: so this is why we’re fighting a global war: is this why the Russians are staging an all out defensive last-ditch stand?